


(Just Take Me Already)

by Moonlighter



Category: Avengers (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlighter/pseuds/Moonlighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Overtaken in the fading light by that eerie stillness once more, Pietro looked like a statue in a museum after hours – contemplative and timeless and untouchable. This is what made Steve want him in the first place – but it was not what he wanted in the end."</p><p>Circa the 'Kooky Quartet' days: Steve and Pietro consummate their mutual attraction, and no one gets attached - because that always works.<br/>Sequel to 'Take Me Out To The Ballgame', and an AU deviant/standalone from the regular Moonlighter fic 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Just Take Me Already)

**Author's Note:**

> 'Take Me Out To The Ballgame' is recommended reading as the preceding chapter for this story: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3768076

“What?”

“What _what_?”

The mutant raised a brow knowingly. This was his way of being gracious, as opposed to articulating the lone word ‘ _Please…_ ’ with an edge, as he might do towards any other colleague under different circumstances.

But these men were friends, and this should all be comfortable between them by now.

Steve sidled alongside the other man to access his own locker on the opposite side of the bench and began to undress. Since there was no gust of disturbed air, he knew Pietro did not turn around to face him as he said wryly, “You looked as though I wore a baseball hat on backwards.”

Even now that Steve knew what it _was_ that he interpreted (or thought that he did, finally), still he never expected it: flirtation. In his mind, an occasion flashed by when he and Pietro were out on the town recently -as sometimes they did just to unwind, to reconnect with ‘normal’ society that didn’t really suit either of them anyway- and walking back to the car they passed a couple interlocked in a passionate embrace.

Once out of hearing range Pietro had said, “Is that why I am not supposed to wear this backwards? It is what…. ‘code’ in this country?”

It took a good solid minute for Steve to process the full meaning. He even looked back behind them (though he couldn’t see that far in the dark) at the pair they had passed. “Were they-”

“Totally like, dudes making out?” Pietro interrupted, in an artificial American accent that was actually passable.

“Well yes, obviously, but-”

“Yes.” Pietro mused aloud, “I imagine it would prove somewhat difficult to get close enough to maneuver, considering how these things stick out…” He adjusted his hat on and off for no reason.

Steve had noticed that the other couple were both men – but he hadn’t noticed their choice of headwear whatsoever, much less that they wore baseball caps on backwards. “I don’t know if it’s code or not. How would I know? I didn’t even look that closely anyway.”

“Hmmyesyoudid.”

“Well, not at their _heads_ I didn’t. Nice ass, though.” That was the first time Steve had seen anything close to an expression of genuine surprise on the speedster’s face. Pietro could dish it out all day -the witty banter, the clever comebacks- but he rarely found himself taken unawares by someone he considered to be an intellectual equal. Whenever Steve reached that achievement -for some reason- it warmed him inside. Like food that’s a little too spicy but tastes so good you want more despite the pain – the ache becomes part of the satisfaction.

Now Steve turned, the drenched sweatshirt he’d worn while boxing in hand. Still Pietro faced his own locker, stripped down to a compression tank and performance briefs. It was actually a rare enough sight to catch him in any state of undress. What Clint liked to deride as the foreigner’s ‘prudish’ tendencies, Steve recognized as a culturally-derived sense of modesty that he was happy to respect.

So it was a rare and remarkable sight indeed, and Pietro was right: it had stopped Steve in his tracks, probably gawking like a fool. The mutant was leaner than lean, his slighter frame a solid network of interlacing muscles hardwired to propel, to resist, in any given direction at the beat of a heart. Having seen him in action, tireless always and merciless too whenever possible, Steve could just search and search that precision-tuned physique and never discover where all the strength comes from. Or maybe -at this point he should be honest with himself- maybe he just likes looking for it.

“How’s the shoulder?” he said, instead of everything else.

“Oh.” Pietro had taken a nasty hit during training not long ago, dislocated a shoulder that healed twice as fast as the doctor’s most optimistic prognosis. He twisted to show where the swelling had been worst, under his collarbone. “Good. No more bruising, see? Still a little stiff, but the doctor says that is to be expected.” He looked up from watching the joint as he tested its rotation.

Steve had already refocused on his face, with some effort, and when their eyes locked an invisible tension filled the room, undeniable. He was so young, Pietro, although he had become a man when he was still a child – sad circumstance had necessitated it, and they had that much in common for sure. But – but, but, but. Steve could start sentences with ‘but’ and talk himself out of it all day long. He’d been practicing for months.

He said evenly, “You know I can’t, right?”

Pietro flinched (or shrugged quickly), searching his gaze. “What?”

“ _What_ what?” Steve repeated as before, teasing but not entirely. They both knew what ‘it’ was.

Pietro had this way of falling completely still in unnerving contrast to his usual state of constant fidgeting (it probably was normal movement, just so much of it happening so quickly). He went motionless like that for what seemed like minutes on end, eventually saying, “I know that is how you feel – but I do not know why.” Steve began to speak and Pietro interrupted him, “No, you do not need to explain. Truly.” He turned around, going back about his business, as though nothing had happened. “There is nothing to explain.”

But Steve wanted him to understand, wanted him to agree. Or -in all honesty, as he allowed himself to survey the other man’s posterior- maybe he just wanted him. “I’m your boss.”

“Not when we are out of uniform,” Pietro replied with his customary tone of mild disinterest. “Boss said so.”

“I’m older-”

“Ha! _Please_ …” there it was: the edge. The spice. “You have a saying here- how does it go? Not the years but the miles?”

“We’re friends. I don’t want to compromise that.”

“Then do not get attached. _I_ do not.”

“We need to be able to work together.”

Pietro turned around again, a bored but not entirely non-combative look on his face. “Are you trying to make an argument, or a covenant?”

“….do people still use the word covenant?”

“You are terrible at this.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, Steve hooked the other man behind the neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Without releasing his grip, he parted them enough to say, “No I’m not,” and enough to behold his reward: a look of total shock on Pietro’s face (which explained why he hadn’t immediately reacted – hopefully). To test that theory, Steve reeled them together again, met this time with a forceful and determined kiss in response. What else should he expect? Next to a boisterous hot-head like Clint, Pietro came off comparatively reserved more often than not, though prone to occasional impulsiveness only befitting his age. Yet beneath that calculated composure, the detached formality, Steve had caught enough glimpses of the fiery interior to know better. If Clint was a firecracker, Pietro was a furnace.

It was one of the things that enticed him about the young man -the _younger_ man (Steven needed to stop thinking of him as a boy)- who tackled this art of kissing now like a hungry beast who smelled blood and had killed before. He shifted his palm to the base of his throat, increasing pressure there until Pietro halted his attack.

“Listen. I can’t _pursue_ you. I feel strongly about that. But if you think you know this is what you want to do and you’re prepared for all that we’d be getting ourselves into, meet me upstairs. I’m going to take a shower here first.” A very cold shower. He headed off straightaway, before things could heat up any further or God forbid, someone walk in on them.

Later, Steve arrived to his room finding the door closed as he always left it. Inside, no lamps were left on, and his windows facing east added little ambient light in the late evening. Empty. He stepped inside just far enough to close the door behind, and couldn’t help but reflect bemusedly on the preceding events. Deep down he didn’t expect Pietro to bow out after all. Probably for the best.

A noise behind startled him out of his reverie and half way out of his skin. He spun, swatting towards the intruder who wisely kept out of arm’s reach. “Good lord! You utter brat! I almost had a heart attack.”

Pietro was trying to say “Shh” while muffling his own laughter. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I could not resist.” He bounded from the wall where he had been wedged behind the door and planted himself against Steve. They had never embraced before full-on, and Steve didn’t expect it, reeled back a little and found himself captured in a ravenous kiss. He pushed forward to avoid being pinned against the wall, intensifying their connection and all the sensations that resulted from it. Pietro wore thin clothes, linen pants and a T-shirt, that did nothing to pad his sharp musculature or restrain his growing erection pressed against Steve’s own.

“Here- Hey- _Easy_. Let’s get comfortable.” If they remained standing it up would turn into a wrestling match before long. Pietro _clearly_ expected the upper hand and it wasn’t Steve’s nature to give in – and certainly not on a ‘first time’ basis. They transitioned to the bed, and kneeling came back together after getting rid of their shirts. Steve found Pietro to be a little more pliable off of his feet, and managed to maneuver him onto his back by way of a bear-hug twisted sideways and rolling on top.

The soldier enjoyed a firm squeeze of that well-formed ass he couldn’t even permit himself to _look_ at most of the time, and groaned into the other man’s mouth. After a minute Pietro started to squirm. “Get up.”

“I’ve _been_ up.” He shifted from holding one of Pietro’s wrists against the mattress to guide his hand to where their erections met.

“Get _off_.”

“That’s the plan,” Steve laughed against his neck.

Pietro made a long-suffering noise in response. With his other hand, he reached around to snap the elastic of Steve’s sweatpants, articulating precisely, “Please remove these, sir,” as though to ensure there could be no play on his meaning this time.

They both finished undressing and as Steve expected, Pietro began to rise as soon as he could. “Somebody’s got to be on the bottom,” he said lightly – but not so lightly as to give the impression of volunteering.

Before he could react Pietro sprung forward like a coiled snake, and in an instant they were sitting face to face, positioned one leg over and one leg under the other’s. “ _Nyuh-uh_ ,” came his reply, an imitation of childish mockery.

Steve choked on a laugh, his cock encased at once in Pietro’s firm grip that wasted no time building upon a deliberate rhythm. Tiny lights started dancing behind his eyelids almost as soon as they cinched shut involuntarily. He grappled blindly for the other man’s cock and fisted it too, but knew he wasn’t doing half as good of a job, couldn’t focus past the _amazing_ sensation intensifying like a tidal wave, what an idiot, he didn’t even _consider_ that it had been such a long time, he should have got the first one out of the way instead of just taking a cold shower.

“Shhh…” Pietro whispered close to his ear and before that second, Steve hadn’t realized he’d been praising the good Lord out loud – probably a little too loud. “He already knows how you feel. Tell it to me now, hmm? Is it nice like this, yes?”

“Yes- nnngh oh God!” Without really hearing the words so much as just the lilting Slavic accent that Pietro didn’t bother to conceal, Steve came hard and as his thrusting erection was expertly, insistently milked, came some more. Once released, he leaned back a little to catch his breath, Pietro’s leg angled behind him providing some support. “I can’t believe it,” he said when he could.

“Mmm… what?”

“I finally beat you past a finish line.”

Pietro shook with silent laughter. One day Steve would figure out why both he and his sister laughed silently, usually covering their mouths.

Arching forward to bring them closer again, Steve nudged against the other man’s neck without kissing there – which seemed to be more welcome. “You have some catching up to do. Sorry – I got a little distracted there. Been kind of a while for me.”

“No apologies. And for the record, I was not racing you.” His voice gave to indication of what was happening to his body – Pietro had perfected the skill of projecting his speech at a ‘normal’ rate while performing all sorts of strenuous activities.

Determined, Steve worked on his erection, trying to find the tempo that would crack that prized concentration. After a bit he checked in on the progress by saying, “I hope it’s physically possible for me to move fast enough to make you come.”

Pietro’s eyes were closed now, steadying himself between one arm pitched behind and one hooked around the back of Steve’s neck – he gave a faint nod and smile.

Steve supposed he didn’t trust himself to speak anymore, too far inebriated with the pleasure of it. “Come on... don’t hold out on me. I told you what was on _my_ mind.”

Turning mischievous, that smile broadened, and he shook his head ‘no’ this time.

“Come on… let me hear you. I want to hear you come.” He was breaking through, paused now at regular intervals to gather the foreskin over the head and massage in a swirling pattern before drilling the shaft with long strokes again (it was actually Pietro’s move he copied).

His breath finally getting away from him at the edge of his release, Pietro gasped out the rarest word in his vocabulary: “ _Slower_.”

Against every instinct he had, Steve obliged, soon rewarded with a string of incoherent affirmations in a language that might as well be Martian, and a gush of warmth between their bodies as the younger man spasmed repeatedly, moaning from deep in his throat where the spiciest of those secret words were born.

He took his own short rest arched forward in Steve’s embrace temple to shoulder. Then he unfurled from their pretzeled limbs to finish collecting himself on the side of the bed. “I’m going to rinse off.” He stood up. “And then I should go.”

“Would you- I mean, you can go. But… do you want to hang out for a while?”

Overtaken in the fading light by that eerie stillness once more, Pietro looked like a statue in a museum after hours – contemplative and timeless and untouchable. This is what made Steve want him in the first place – but it was not what he wanted in the end.

“I should go,” Pietro said, then disappeared. An instant later, the shower started.

By the time Steve had risen and washed his hands, Pietro emerged from the bathroom toweled. He paused as he passed without raising his gaze, bowed his forehead against the nape of Steve’s neck in brief, and was gone.

Steve had not lost his friend. In the morning, Captain America would have his Avenger. And that would have to be enough.

He showered, dressed, went downstairs where he ate a simple supper while listening to news radio, and in the dark of night turned into bed alone.

* * *

 

**_~fin~_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a self-challenge to slash this pairing. Should be considered an 'AU' standalone to the rest of the Moonlighter fic 'verse.


End file.
